I was relaxing when Wes shouted, “Keeper hydraulic to the right! Check it out!”
There wasn't much to check, other than a smallish swirl of water, but then Wes steered the kayak closer and there was suddenly a boiling mass of water to check out—no sign of Becca, of anybody, and how could there be anybody in that liquid boil—but Wes kept aiming right at the thing, and I was now checking it out for an exit plan, but how did one exit a keeper hydraulic? It keeps you. And still Wes drove us toward it. Wes the pilot who dove his chopper and headed for the concrete dam. But we'd survived. We had a dynamite pilot and I figured the corollary was, he's a dynamite boatman. A hawk, a fish, cutting our kayak right to the edge of that keeper.
The kayak seemed to yearn toward it.
And then Wes shouted, “Paddle right!”
I leapt to it, digging in my paddle with one hard stroke and then another, noticing how hard the river fought back, and I heard Wes grunting behind me, paddling hard behind me, and I felt the kayak respond, veering to the left, away from the keeper, and then without words we were both paddling in synch, dipping left to hold our line and easing up on the right, the kayak centering in the river, and then we adjusted and pointed our craft straight ahead, leaving the keeper behind, riding the river and the water flowed smoothly like it was in on the plan. We were running this river.
I got wet. I didn't care.
Wes shouted, “Back to spotting!”
I let the paddle sink to my knees and wiped my sunglasses with a dry patch of shirt and returned to the job. I twisted to look back and could see enough of the river bottom to tell that no swimmer had been spat out of that keeper and trapped down below. I straightened to scan ahead.
Another drop-off ahead.
Wes took us over, riding the tongue where the river poured over a rock ledge, the kayak a whisper on the water, the water over rock sounding like liquid applause.
A very sweet ride.
I had plenty of time to examine the bottom where the muddy rocks and leaves lived, to examine the right side of the river where the sandstone cliff fell straight into the water, to examine the left side where the sandstone cliff ledged out, where a swimmer could haul herself out of the water and lie on the sun-warmed rock.
But she hadn't.
I felt a sting of guilt, that I'd thrilled to our swift little ride.
The river now eased to a tamer flow, the cliffs a little wider here, the drop a little gentler. And I spotted one of those sandy spots Jeff had promised, where a broken toe of cliff had cleared a space. A spindly tamarisk had a foothold. I stared hard at the little oasis, searching for a granola bar wrapper or a dropped sun hat, or footprints, because this was an inviting place to stop. Below the tamarisk was a pile of browning leaves and broken branches. And then, a patch of yellow. My heartbeat ramped up. But before I could tell Wes to paddle us over, my angle of view changed and I recognized the bent yellow metal with the black lettering. Just an edge peeking out. Enough to call it a no-trespass sign. Another maintenance item for Charlotte's list.
The cliffs began to close in again and there were no more oases and the river ran faster.
Wes threaded a scattering of boulders. He was good. Good, I suddenly wondered, as Reid? Was Reid skilled, on the river? I had the impression that Reid excelled in everything he did. Except keeping his date with his niece. That what happened? Charlotte thought so. And then he didn't show up, or whatever. And the whatever was his date with his fishing buddies on the big-boy river? Or maybe he didn't promise Becca. Maybe she just got it into her head that he was coming. Whatever. In any case, after she set up the kayak with the paddles and PFDs at the put-in, and he didn't show, what did she do? Where did she go?
Wes shouted, “Keep spotting!”
I nodded. I'm on it. No riverbanks here to spot so I stared at the bottom of the river. Not as wild or deep as the big-girl river, but serious enough to drown in. And then I thought, hey, and looked up to the cliffs, thinking maybe they were climbable, maybe she crawled out of the water and up the rock, but there was nobody cliff-crawling.
I looked ahead.
Up ahead, our little waterway snaked to the left. There was foam. Our river was getting serious.
“Hang on,” Wes shouted. “Keep spotting.”
I gripped my paddle with one hand and with the other gripped the grab rope beside my seat. And over we went, down a nasty trough that churned between two boulders, Wes threading the needle, me spotting and seeing nobody, just the foamy whitewater ahead, and we were suddenly down in it, the river spraying, our kayak knifing through.
The river bent a little more.
The water moved at a fast clip.
“Nobody, nothing,” I called to Wes.
And then the river really kinked and we sped around a bend, Wes holding our line right down the middle.
I did my bit, spotting through the foam.
And Wes shouted, “Shit!”
I turned, thinking he'd seen Becca, or another keeper, but he was frozen in place, his paddle aloft.
I looked forward to see what he was seeing.
And I screamed.
Wes found his voice. “Paddle right!”
I needed no instruction. I paddled furiously right. The river fought me. We were deep in the current, in the foam, holding our line, right down the middle. What we needed to do was get the hell out.
“Trough left!” Wes shouted.
Yeah, I saw it, funneling alongside the ledge of rock that footed out from the cliff, a smooth-looking trough that ran straight and true and would get us past the thing in the middle of the river.
Sunlight caught it. Turned the silvery steel golden. Turned the silvery twists golden, highlighting their pointed ends.
Their barbs.
Time elongated. I had all the time in the world to establish that there were three strands of barbwire strung across the river. That they were fastened to a steel frame, that the frame hung by cables from a steel crossbeam that spanned from a metal pole on one side to a metal pole on the other. That the barbwire frame curtained down into the water.
Shit.
I leaned hard to the right, digging my paddle into the froth, speeding up time, helping to dig us out of the midline trough, free us from the line that was going to feed us into the barbwire gate.
We sped leftward. Toward the rock ledge. Toward the smooth trough that flowed around the left edge of the gate frame, that just might give us enough room to squeeze by. We paddled and shouted our way over to the trough.
And the trough took us, and we were saved.
And then somehow we weren't.
The bow of the kayak met the frame of the gate and our little boat climbed right up out of the water and I was airborne, and I guessed Wes was airborne, but I didn't have time to look. I was in the air one moment and beneath the water the next. The current of the left-hand trough, that had looked so slow and sweet from up above, pulled hard and rough down below, trying to take me to the bottom.
But it was not the only thing grabbing me.
Somebody had hold of me, was keeping the current from taking me, it was hawk-fish Wes, but he got it wrong, he was holding me in place, beneath the water. I could see the rippling surface just above. I couldn't reach it.
Cold.
Running out of air.
Throat cramping.
The current tugged my torso downstream but Wes had me by the head, holding me in place. No, get me under the arms, do it that way.
I needed to breathe.
And I saw, through dimming eyes, a big silver fish.
A big silver knife.
Wes?
I screamed and let the river in. There was water in my mouth, where I had wanted air.
I put up a hand to grab Wes, to get away from the knife, and I grabbed hold of something sharp. Shark teeth. I jerked my hand away, tearing flesh, streaming blood. And then I felt my scalp burn. I put up the other hand and found my hair entangled in barbwire.
I went limp. I h
ad no thoughts. I was cold and it was dark.
And then something jerked me aware, the barbwire was twisting, lifting. Something yanked me by the hair.
Wes.
Wes was cutting my hair.
And then like a balloon I floated right up to the surface, vest nudging my chin above the water line. I opened my mouth and coughed out river, and it tasted like iron-ore silt, and then I was breathing and tasting desert-hot air.
I shuddered.
Hands on my waist, shoving me. Wes. He propelled me into the rock ledge. I didn't even feel it. I didn't feel the rough sandstone scraping my fingers as I clawed the rock for a handhold. I didn't even feel it when I found the crack in the rock, when I jammed in my fingers. Numb. Cold.
Anchored.
And then Wes was beside me, crowding me, reaching up with his own torn hands to grab a slice of rock.
I wanted to thank him. Couldn't even croak.
We nodded to one another and then just hung there, legs bumping in the current, cramping grips on the ledge, the two of us bleeding into the red rock.
Wes tipped his head back and said help.
I joined in.
In time, we could shout out the word.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“WHO IN THE HELL DID that?”
Justin's voice. A shout.
I stirred. I looked up from the red-rock ledge.
I saw them coming.
They came through a slot in the sandstone, just above us, and hurried down the fissure that fed onto our ledge. They knelt and got us by the arms and then by the belts and then by the legs, carefully lifting us like valuable cargo out of the river.
They kept asking are you all right? Are you all right?
They let us rest and then got us to our feet.
Neely and Justin flanked Wes.
Walter and Edgar flanked me.
Charlotte snapped at Jeff, “Raise the damn gate.”
Jeff scrambled along the ledge like a mountain goat, to the metal pole that was anchored in the rock. He took hold of the wheel crank that attached to a drum and, with a few easy turns, ratcheted up the cable that ran up the pole and across the beam to the pulleys, which pulled up the gate cables.
I watched, dazed.
And then I watched the kayak, suddenly freed. It hesitated, spun, and then the current took it.
“Back to the boathouse,” Charlotte snapped. “Just go.”
We were herded up the ledge, along the fissure, stumbling, through the slot, angling to fit, no time to even wonder how far the boathouse was because we were suddenly there.
WES AND I STOOD SHIVERING.
The torn flesh on my hand was on fire. My scalp stung where the barbwire had entangled my hair, where Wes had cut it free. My wet clothes clung. But I was all right. I could breathe. I latched onto the heat of the sun, filtering through the cottonwoods.
Wes stripped off his wet T-shirt. His nylon river shorts were drying at the edges. I could see, in the still-wet left pocket, the outline of a folding knife. I carried my field knife in my pack. Wes carried his in his pocket. Boatman code? To cut tangled bow lines and such?
And such. I thanked him, yet again.
“You're my spotter.” He put his arm around me. His hand dripped blood.
“Charlotte,” Walter said, “do you just booby-trap the river or have you got something on hand to help?”
“Booby-trap?” She raised an eyebrow. But she opened the hide-a-key rock, got the key, unlocked the shed. She ducked inside and returned with a first-aid kit and two folded towels. She handed the kit off to Walter. She all but tossed the towels at Wes and me.
The towels were red with black DNL logos, and it wasn't until I wrapped myself that I warmed enough to translate the logo: Devil's Nose Lodge. The material was worn and nubby. I glimpsed the open bin inside the shed, with a couple more folded towels. Castoffs. I was happy to have one.
Neely came over to help, and while rummaging with Walter for bandages and Neosporin she asked us for permission to film.
Wes said, “Hell yes.”
I nodded.
Walter said, “We'll want a record.”
Edgar started the camera.
Neely glanced at Charlotte. “I'm not asking your permission. These are my people.”
“Film it all,” Charlotte said.
Jeff looked in concern at his mother. “That's a bad idea.”
She ignored him. “I'll post it on YouTube. Trespassers beware.”
“The hell?” Wes said. “You let us go down the river.”
“I assumed Becca had raised the gate,” she coolly replied.
My hand stung, as Walter smeared on the Neosporin. I glimpsed Becca's kayak caught in a tangle of debris at river's edge. Eddied-out. Good place for a boathouse, here where the river leveled. Good place to anchor the gate poles, in the rock ledge just upriver. Quick access through that slot in the cliff. Easy for Becca to raise the gate before loading the tandem in her truck and driving it up to the put-in. Maybe she did. I looked at the hide-a-key rock on the ground. No way to tell if the latch had been broken, when Charlotte opened it. So maybe Jeff hadn't been delayed by a broken fake rock, two hours ago. Maybe he'd been delayed by nipping through the slot to lower the gate. Timing probably worked. Motive worked, Jeff riled by that macho match with Wes. But if Jeff was setting this up, how did he know the tandem was up at the put-in, rather than at the Grand Canyon, as Charlotte had insisted? Maybe he'd gone to the put-in another time, on his maintenance rounds, and seen the kayak. And left it. To be stolen by trespassing kids? To show his mother? Because he's a mean-spirited piece of work, jealous of his sister, trying to win favor with his cold-hearted mother. Jeff Lassen, the responsible offspring.
And then, a better opportunity arose, to utilize that gate, that kayak. Us.
Or maybe, I had to admit, it was as the Lassens said. Careless Becca left the gate lowered, left the kayak sitting on the bank.
Justin came over to Charlotte. “For the record, Ms. Lassen. Why did you gate the river?”
“You the reporter?”
“Investigative journalist.”
“Then investigate. It's the law of the river.”
“That gives you the right to string barbwire?”
“Sure does.” She nodded to the camera. “Film it all, Edgar. As a property owner, I own the riverbed and its banks. Law applies to your big-deal Colorado, too, ranches, farms, wherever property intersects the river. I can gate my river, as long as I post a warning sign, where boaters can get off the water. There's a sign, about halfway down from the put-in.”
The half-buried yellow sign. I said, “It was down.”
“Ahhh. Winter storm damage.” She glanced at her son. “You should have fixed it.”
His mouth tightened.
She faced the camera again, arms crossing in that shotgun-hold. “I run a fishing lodge, and there's a prime fishing hole just downstream. It's my business to keep trespassing varmints away from my guests.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I SAT UP FRONT IN THE helicopter, next to Wes, our clothes slightly damp, the two of us sitting on the Devil's Nose towels.
Neely and Edgar were in the second row. Justin and Walter rode in the back.
“Where to?” Wes asked.
Neely answered, “Your call, cousin.”
“You're the boss, cousin.”
“Wes,” she said, gently, “you've been through it. You wanna go straight home and chill, I'm good with that. You wanna do some kind of air search for Becca, I'm good with that.”
He answered, voice rough, “I wouldn't admit it to those Lassen asshats, but Becca does go rogue. She's bailed on me more than once. And at this point, I've had enough.” He gripped the throttle so tightly his knuckles whitened. “So, where to?”
“We already got footage of Page,” Neely said. “So how about Boulder City? And then Vegas?”
Page, Arizona—hometown of rafter Frank Hembry, which we'd flown over early this mornin
g. Boulder City, Nevada—hometown of rafter Megan Schrader. Las Vegas, Nevada—hometown of rafter Sam Pendleton. Neely was going for the frame, weaving the rafting tragedy into the story of the river. From Page to Vegas. With that detour to Paradox Valley.
Wes said, “Walter? Justin? Edgar? You up for it?”
“Yes,” Walter said, “let's finish it.”
Justin said, “Boss wants footage.”
“Whatever's good for you all is good for me,” Edgar said.
“Final call is Cassie's.” Wes swiveled to look at me. His eyes were hidden behind the aviator shades but his lean face was composed. Bandages on his hands didn't appear to interfere with his dexterity.
It had been a long day, leaving aside the Lassens. After returning the SUV to the Bedrock Store, we'd revitalized with sandwiches and milkshakes. I was looking forward to a glass of chardonnay and a long hot shower back at the Bright Angel Lodge cabin. But yeah, Walter got it right. Let's finish it.
I gave Wes a nod.
He opened the map screen on the dashboard. I looked. Next stop, Boulder City—just beyond the western boundary of Grand Canyon. Not close.
“We'll go out the way we came, catch the Colorado, and I'll refuel in Moab. From there, take it as the crow flies.”
WE FLEW HIGH ABOVE the Dolores River as it wove through its canyon on the way to join the mighty Colorado. When we caught sight of the Colorado—not particularly mighty right there, but nevertheless its iconic big-deal self—a cheer went up in the chopper cabin.
Leaving Lassen country.
Wes banked and we flew southwest, stopped at Moab to refuel, and then as promised Wes followed the crow.
The sun was slanting in through the windshield, and the dashboard heater ran. I yawned. Deeply fatigued. My eyelids drooped.
Next time I opened my eyes and looked out the window we were again following the Colorado, as it exited the lower Grand Canyon.
Spectacular down there.
Warm up here. I tugged the towel out from beneath me. I started to toss it onto the floor, but something caught my eye. Something stood out in contrast on one corner. Something was caught in the nubby material. I lifted the towel for a closer look.
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